


snake trap

by anaiata



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Rigel Black Chronicles - murkybluematter
Genre: Fanfiction of Fanfiction, Gen, Inspired by The Rigel Black Chronicles, Post Ruse Reveal, apologies for overuse of em-dashes, murkybluematter, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-23
Updated: 2020-10-23
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:56:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27176207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anaiata/pseuds/anaiata
Summary: The ruse collapses on the last day of the tournament. Harry and Archie disappear. The Marauders just want to find their children, and Severus just wants his apprentice to be safe.
Relationships: Lily Evans Potter & Severus Snape, Marauders & Severus Snape
Comments: 27
Kudos: 161
Collections: Rigel Black Exchange Round 2





	snake trap

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rockerlullaby](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rockerlullaby/gifts).
  * Inspired by [The Pureblood Pretense](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/704693) by murkybluematter. 



Severus is in a bad mood.

It has been half a month since his idiot protege and his— _her_ cousin disappeared, without a trace. Severus has followed all the direct leads he can, interrogating Krait, getting his boots dirty in the Lower Alleys. When trying to rig up the medi-mini balls from Rigel’s first year to a location ritual failed to produce adequate results, he’d put himself under a Disillusionment and followed rumours and people until he found the apartment on Dogwood Lane, only to be blocked off by the wards.

“It’s locked down,” he’d heard an old woman say to her friend with a shake of her head, “Can’t even touch the door. When the rent runs out, I’ll have to contact the Rogue for a wardbreaker.”

Which brings him here. 

A few narrow streets away from Knockturn Alley, looking at the wanted poster tacked to a shopfront. It’ll be gone by daybreak— posters never last long around here, and Severus wonders why anyone still bothers with them when even _he_ can’t track the girl down.

 _WANTED,_ it says, _HARRIET POTTER. REWARD: 100 GALLEONS._

Below, a picture of a girl beside a toppled trophy, in the last moments of the tournament when her polyjuice failed and all went to hell. Her eyes— _Lily’s_ eyes— are blown wide, but her lips are set in a grimly determined line. She glances behind herself, draws her wand, then looks straight out of the poster— right at Severus. Then, as if recognizing him, her tense posture relaxes a fraction and _she winks._

Severus’ breath catches in his throat.

Before he can decide whether his mind is playing a trick on him or not—

(It isn’t, he would know. He is an occlumens.)

— a gust of wind tears past, catches on the edge of the flimsy poster. It flutters madly like a pinned butterfly or a bird straining for freedom, and, instinctively, Severus reaches out and snatches it off. 

Barely able to breathe, he flips it around to find— nothing. Blank paper. He sends a flare of magic through it, and, still, paper. An enchantment for the picture by an unfamiliar caster, hints of magic it has absorbed from simply being in the Lower Alleys but just—

Paper.

He turns back to the front. The girl— he still finds it hard to think of her as _Rigel_ , but she _is_ — doesn’t even look at him.

An irrational wave of anger swells up inside of him, and he crushes the poster in a long-fingered hand. With just a thought, it catches fire, flaring brightly, casting odd shadows in the night.

Severus watches as it burns, then wipes the ashes away. The chill breeze sweeps them into the night before they reach the ground.

Severus pauses for a moment to breathe. The air is cool and dry, without the barest hint of smoke. He grits his teeth.

That’s it. He’s had enough. He needs a drink. 

Before he can apparate away, however, he hears a familiar voice call after him, and he stops.

“Severus!”

He whirls around and sees the man standing awkwardly at the curve of the street, empty hands held loosely at his sides. His face blanks. His fingertips find his wand.

He wants to ignore the man, apparate anyways. He wants to hex him, draw his wand and stun him, leave him at the mercy of the unsavory sorts that frequent these alleys. He wants to snap at him, sneer, _Master Snape to you, mutt_. 

But something in the man’s haggard appearance and the gaunt hollows in his cheeks gives him pause. 

Severus Snape is a bastard, but even bastards can be civil, when the days are long and the nights are dark. 

“Black,” he says shortly, folding his arms over his chest. 

“I know you’ve been searching for them. Have you— Have you heard anything from my son?” Desperate. _Pathetic._

Severus scowls, but his next words come out less acerbically than usual. “I never taught your son, Black.” And oh, wasn’t that a pity. One potions prodigy, rather than two, and now none.

Black winces. “Harry, then?” he asks, still hopeful.

“No,” Severus says curtly, “If that’s it, then—”

“Wait!”

He waits. Blacks wrings his hands, but says nothing. “Well,” Severus says, impatient, “Spit it out.”

“Remus, James, Lily, and I go to the Leaky every Wednesday,” the man says anxiously, “We were wondering if—”

“I’d like to join? With the likes of you lot?”

“We search for them. For _them._ Not for the bounty, or for the law— James is conflicted out of the investigation anyways.”

“It’s safer if they aren’t found, Black,” he says wearily, ignoring his own hypocrisy, “They know how to handle themselves.”

“We could share information,” Black says, “You were at the apartment today, weren’t you? It’s Harry’s, and only close family can get in. James and Lily say it’s furnished, but clean. No evidence. It’s a dead end. We think they were planning to use it as an escape route, somehow, if everything didn’t end so— disastrously.”

Severus looks straight into Black’s eyes and finds no hint of a lie. He swallows. It’s tempting. He recognizes bait on a hook, but recognition means nothing if his will to know is greater than the threat. “Why me?”

Black shrugs. “Harry talked about you all the time, and you were her favourite teacher. James says you’re searching on behalf of Riddle, but Lily reckons you wouldn’t pass on anything that would let him find them before us. Before you.”

Idiot Gryffindors. “How would she know?”

“She reckons you care about them— or just Harry, at least.”

He scowls, stays silent. It’s true, and Severus doesn’t know what to feel about Lily still being able to read him so well, after all these years. 

“Just— Just think about it, alright? Drinks at the Leaky, nine o’clock,” Black pauses, “We promise to stop being idiots. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry. We’re all sorry. If we hadn’t ignored Harry’s passions then maybe they wouldn’t have hidden as much, wouldn’t have—” he runs a hand through his hair, “They switched in first year. I never got to know who my own son became, the Potters didn’t know their own daughter, and now they’re gone. Please, Severus, consider it.”

Sincerity— awful, blatant, honest sincerity— rolls off Black in waves, and his pleading expression is the last thing Severus sees of him before he disapparates, leaving the potions master alone in the alleyway, surrounded by shadows.

Sincerity, like no pureblood— and Black was surely raised a pureblood— would ever dare reveal. Information about Rigel, precious, offered with taster included. Free drinks. Approaching your foe on neutral ground, when he is unaware and he is _tired_.

It’s a perfect lure. The perfect trap.

Yet Severus realizes with a sinking feeling in his stomach that he’s already decided what he’s going to do.

* * *

The first meeting, he arrives at nine sharp and enters the Leaky with a heavy scowl on his face. He has second thoughts— twentieth thoughts— about coming and entertains the idea of just disappearing into Diagon, but Lily sees him and waves him over.

“Alice is taking care of Addy for tonight. I wanted to see you again. I know it isn’t the best time, but—” she cuts off and bites her lip, “Come sit with us.”

Severus braces himself and walks over. His stark black robes are out of place in the casual warmth of the Leaky, and he wraps the incongruence around himself like a shield.

They shuffle over to make space for him, and he gingerly sits himself down, sending out a pulse of magical awareness to disable any traps they might have prepared. He’s surprised to find none.

Lily smiles tightly at him, but Potter loops an arm around her and Severus has to stop himself from gritting his teeth or setting the tablecloth on fire or, Merlin forbid, strangling him. Hatred. There’s still hatred in him, dark and black and burning. He takes a moment to breathe, and locks his occlumency shields in place. _For Rigel._ He’d sit through worse.

Though he’s not quite sure what’s worse than a night with the Marauders. He’d rather season his food with one of Longbottom’s potions. Is he biased? Yes. Yes he is. Is it any less true? No.

“Drinks on us tonight,” Potter says dully, raising a half-empty glass of firewhisky without meeting Severus’ eyes, “Order whatever you want.”

On anyone else, it’s generosity. On Potter, it’s arrogance. Severus considers for a moment buying the most expensive drink on the menu, just to spend the man’s money, but decides against it and asks for a muggle beer instead. He knocks back a good portion of it immediately. 

He cannot afford to attract the Marauders’ ire.

_For Rigel._

Conversation is stilted even with alcohol flowing. They studiously attempt to ignore the decades of enmity between them, but it still looms like a shadow or a ghost, colouring every interaction with wariness and mistrust. Severus keeps himself cold and contained, and the Marauders tiptoe around him on eggshells.

Small talk falls flat, and it isn’t long before the conversation turns to the missing children. Good. That’s what Severus came for.

Perhaps because of his presence, they start talking about the polyjuice.

“It was polyjuice, wasn’t it?” Lupin asks him, “I thought I recognized it when Harry turned back on the mirrors. How’d they get it to last so long?”

Severus had worked it out ages ago, recalling something Rigel had said— _there had been so many hints, how had he not realized?_ — about amber. He gives a concise reply in a bland tone, and they all nod as though they understand.

The rest of the night passes with a haze of tipsiness and questions and answers and answers and questions, and very little otherwise. Severus keeps his cards close to his chest, and says nothing unless directly asked. They are trying to piece the puzzle together, except the more pieces they have, the more pieces they realize are missing. 

Rigel had been playing a more complicated game than any of them knew.

They each leave with more questions, and promises of investigation. Severus puzzles over wands and school curricula and blended appearances as he stumbles into his rooms.

He wakes up the next morning with a hangover and a hazy, bizarre memory of having had a civil night with the Marauders.

* * *

The second meeting, it’s Lupin that waves him over.

“Sirius is in America following up on a supposed sighting near AIM. Lily’s at home with Addy. Drinks on me.”

Severus takes note of the words, inspects the space they leave for him, sits down cautiously. His next words slip out unconsciously. “Even if they’re your spawn, they aren’t stupid enough to be found.”

They freeze. Severus is tense, instantly alert, and his fingertips find the wand under his sleeve. It's mild, barely notable in the list of insults they've exchanged over the years, but, well, who knows when the truce will break?

A second ticks by.

Then Potter lets out a low, appreciative laugh, tilting his glass towards him ever so slightly. “Right you are, our Harry was always a genius. Never figured out where she got the brains from.”

Severus keeps his face blank. Very blank.

Potter reaches out and claps him on the shoulder. Severus suppresses a flinch, but stays put. _For Rigel, for Rigel,_ like a mantra inside his head. “Don’t worry, Severus, Lily made us promise to behave.”

 _I can handle you without Lily,_ Severus almost snaps, but keeps his mouth shut. “Any news?” he says instead, coolly.

Potter elbows Lupin, and Lupin hesitates. “I know you’re trying to track them, and I don’t know how, so I don’t know how useful this is, but Harry knows how to apparate and free-duel.”

“And there’s a chance that Archie might’ve been an actual metamorphmagus,” Potter completes.

He ignores the tidbit about Black and zeroes in on Rigel. _Of course_ the blasted child managed to pick up those skills, alongside everything else. Of course. What had he expected at this point?

It is impressive, if he is being fair to her.

Lupin is still waiting for him to say something. “The girl’s too resourceful not to use those skills,” he comments blandly, “So they would avoid countries that track apparation.”

Lupin grimaces, looking slightly disappointed, and flags down the bartender to order Severus a drink. “Yeah, we figured. Anything on the twin front? Lily told us to ask about Harry’s potion technique.” Lily, again. He’s going to be hearing a lot more of her, isn’t he? 

He tells them about the possibility of glamour charms shape-imbued into polyjuice, and leaves out his suspicion that they’d gone with something far simpler or far more complex, in typical Rigel fashion. And he has no doubt that it was Rigel that masterminded most of it.

Lily’s child, of course. But then again, it must’ve taken Marauder blood to do something so utterly _idiotic._

They talk about their investigations. They drink.

Before they leave, that night, as they stand in the green cast of the floo-fire, Lupin snags his sleeve. It takes a ridiculous amount of self control to not hex the man’s fingers off. 

“You have to understand,” the werewolf says, “We’ve had to reevaluate everything these past few weeks, and none of us care about our feud anymore.”

 _Of course you don’t,_ he thinks, something dark creeping between his ribs, up his throat, _It never hurt_ you _._

“We have to cooperate, Severus.”

“We are,” he says curtly, and shoots Lupin an icy glare, “Let. Go.”

He does. Severus strides into the green flames and disappears.

* * *

The third meeting, Severus doesn’t even know why he comes. There’s no point anymore, no point to continuing their fruitless search.

But he arrives, on time, sweeps his seat for traps, and, without asking, immediately orders a drink on Black’s tab.

For a while, they don’t talk.

It’s been a month since the disappearance. They’ve had enough time to brew polyjuice.

* * *

The fourth meeting, the Marauders finally slip.

It’s Potter, nursing a glass of firewhisky, who says it jokingly to Black. Lupin freezes immediately, and Black right after. Potter catches on a second later, his eyes widening he turns imploringly to Severus.

_Snivellus._

Outside, Severus keeps a stony expression on his face. Inside, something has broken, and suddenly _loathing_ burns in his bones. A black fury seeps through his entire body, and he forces himself to stay still. Stay in _control._

 _Snivellus. Snivellus. Oh, Snivellus._

He is disgusted with them, who never grew up. With himself, too trusting even now. Consorting with his worst enemies, for the sake of a child he will never actually find? _Drinking_ with them? 

A perfect trap, he had thought, a perfect lure, a perfect betrayal. And he calls himself a Slytherin.

Merlin, the _stupidity._

(The _disappointment,_ in some corner of his brain he refuses to acknowledge.)

He slams his glass into the table, stands up, and turns to leave. One of them attempts to stand up— to hex him? follow him? apologize? Ha.— and, without looking, Severus flicks his wand behind him, his magic unshaped but for his cold rage and the will to _make them shut up_.

The man falls back down with a muffled _oomph._

Severus steps into the floo without looking back.

* * *

He doesn’t attend the next meeting. Or the next. Or the next. 

He busies himself with his own investigation, collecting pensieve memories and stories and rumours. He writes down any clues he finds in a warded, leather-bound notebook he has started to call his Rigel-book. Sometimes, he finds himself noting down smaller things as well, like her blood-replenisher recipe, or the brand of her boots, or how he laments having to mark all the dunderheads’ summer homework without hers to raise the average quality. It’s funny how the child still devours his time when she isn’t even here.

(He should let go. He is just one man, and Rigel sharp enough to fend for herself. He should let go, let her take care of herself, move on.)

(He doesn’t. Reason gathers dust in the deepest corner of his mind.)

He leaves the SOW party. It’s reckless, almost, the tumble of thoughts and actions that lead him to Riddle’s desk. The SOW Party has connections and resources that any Slytherin ought to think twice about before abandoning.

Severus throws the equivalent of a resignation letter, scrawled on the backside of spare parchment, onto Riddle’s desk, and finds he does not care. 

Lily is safe, thanks to Rigel, and the girl herself is gone. Riddle can’t even chase after him, too busy trying to rescue the burning wreckage of the Party’s image. 

Severus can admit, with a curl of his lips and a shadow of dark satisfaction, that if Rigel’s ruse had to collapse, it had happened at the most opportune time. Right after winning the blood tournament, her halfblood face displayed on the mirrors distributed across the whole of Wizarding Britain? Followed up by an animagus transformation, and literally flying away? Didn’t get much better than that. He’d have laughed, if it didn’t mean that his protege was now in line for a dementor’s kiss.

He prepares for the next school year, avoids society functions like the plague, brews in his soft-floored potions lab. He’s there when the message arrives.

Not the ones from the Marauders— he’d burnt those as soon as they’d arrived. Nor the one from Lily— that one didn’t last much longer, though he’d read it before tossing it into the fire. No. One grasped in the talons of a long-distance owl, in an unmarked envelope made of thick, high-quality, fibrous paper that smells distinctly like a very particular potions lab.

_Master Liu._

Except— Master Liu has never sent him anything. Ever. Master Liu does not send letters.

Severus blinks.

Then he tears the envelope open, and out tumbles a single black feather.

* * *

Impulsively, he sends a letter that night, containing a scrawled word: _China_. 

For all the Marauder’s flaws, Rigel had still seemed fond enough of them, and that means they deserve to know where their progeny end up. Severus is a professor, after all.

A few days later, they send back a thin sheaf of passable notes, which Severus adds directly to his Rigel-book.

* * *

They conduct communication by mail after that. One of them would send a piece of information, and the other would send something of what they considered roughly equal value back. Plain business, no false civility needed. Just looking for the missing children.

It works far better when he doesn’t have to see the Marauders’ faces. Even better during school term, when, even without SOW business, Severus has to juggle his own investigation with far too many other things without an apprentice to help him. 

Halloween passes without note. Autumn fades into winter.

He sees them during Rigel’s trial, meets them once after.

It’s a long, horrible affair, but he attends between classes and watches from the sidelines— he’s a halfblood, and there is no point in testifying if his word is worth so little in court. He pulls whatever strings he can, though, and discovers half a dozen other people doing the same. Apparently, the girl had managed to rack up a frankly alarming number of life debts. 

Despite the SOW Party’s best efforts, it’s enough to land her a relatively lenient sentence, though the threat of almost a decade in Azkaban is still enough to keep Rigel the hell away from Britain.

The hell away from Severus.

Oh, he could leave Britain, but he has his connections and his lab and his godson and his Slytherins here. He isn’t going to drop everything in search of a wayward apprentice, no matter how much some whispering voice in his head wants him to.

_Some whispering voice in his head—_

Dread pools in his stomach, trickles into his bones.

There are moments where the world unpicks itself before you, when the stars line up just right in the black velvet sky and the wanderer sees a constellation, when the wizard tugs on a knot in hidden wards and the entire structure unveils itself, when ears perk up and prey becomes _prey._

 _Some whispering voice in his head—_ is _that_ why he’s still searching?

The world unpicks itself, leaves only the truth behind. And the truth is this: He should let go. He should have let go months ago.

Months ago, when the ruse and the betrayal were plastered across first the mirrors then the newspapers of Wizarding Britain. Months ago, when he should’ve already known how this would play out.

Whole classes of dunderheads leave Hogwarts every year, and he’s glad to never see them again. What’s a single student, however promising she may be?

 _Some whispering voice in his head._

He can’t keep searching. He _shouldn’t_ keep searching. Shouldn’t have _kept_ searching. He said it himself, when he met Black in that alleyway. _It’s safer if they aren’t found._

The logic unravels— no, _reveals_ itself like a sprawling spiderweb finally catching the light, there all along, unheeded. Like knifeshine in a dark alley, teeth in the maw of fate.

Severus feels sick.

The Marauders were never the trap he needed to worry about.

* * *

He has a meeting to attend that evening, but he has a sobriety potion in his pocket and he needs a drink, Albus be damned. 

When the Marauders walk into the Leaky five minutes after he sits down, he freezes.

They freeze.

Severus accidentally meets Lily’s brilliant green gaze and she takes it as an invitation, striding boldly across the pub with the men following behind her, and Severus’ stomach sinks. It feels like he’s—

 _Planned_ this. Somewhere. So deep down that even he didn’t notice until there was no way out.

So much for being a perfect occlumens. _Some whispering voice in his head._ Pfah.

Lily lowers herself onto the seat next to him. “Any news?” she says neutrally, and Severus relaxes a fraction.

“A werewolf was contained by her protection potion in Paraguay last week,” he says, equally expressionless. Severus had called in all the contacts he could from the international potions community, but hadn’t found anything useful until a couple weeks ago because the only _good_ thing about South American potioneers was that they liked to gossip.

(Useless, in the end. All of it.)

Lily nods.

Severus takes a sip of his drink. He swirls it idly in one hand, watches as the dim light filters through the liquid, ignores the dread that roils in his stomach.

“The aurors say they have a lead in Slovakia,” someone says.

“I suspect they’re mistaken.”

“Yeah, we thought so too.”

Stilted silence.

Silence, and Marauders, and the looming truth.

He should let go. 

Here’s his chance. Say it, just say it, and he cuts his losses. Cuts himself out of the investigation, cuts out Rigel's ghost. A painless amputation. The search is useless. Sure, they’ve made progress, but even if they find the children— then what?

_It’s safer if they aren’t found._

He wants Rigel back. He wants Rigel safe. He cannot achieve the former, and can best help with the latter if he _drops it._ The Marauders are their parents, their family— they have a right to know where their spawn end up. He?

He is an outsider. He has no place here.

The alcohol reaches his tongue, and he doesn’t have the chance to stop himself. “My apologies,” he breathes. 

“Huh?”

“The search. I cannot continue.” He hates himself for saying it. He hates himself for not saying it sooner.

There is a long, painful silence. He closes his eyes briefly.

“Yeah. Yeah, we get it,” one of them says dully.

“I should’ve excused myself a long time ago,” Severus adds, instead of leaving.

“Yeah. We understand. Thank you for staying so long.”

“It was never for you.”

“Thank you anyways. We’ll send you updates.”

“I suppose this is it, then,” he says, standing up, throat tight, heart slow and heavy in his chest. 

_A painless amputation._ Why does it hurt so much?

“Bye,” a Marauder says.

He turns to Lily, and her eyes are bright with sympathy and pain. “Goodbye, Severus,” she whispers.

He opens his mouth to say something, then closes it when he realizes there’s nothing left to say, without Rigel between them anymore. 

He turns and leaves.

* * *

They send no updates.

Severus is unmoored.

* * *

He teaches, he researches, he brews. He makes a breakthrough with the shaped-imbuing technique. He reorganizes his time, fills in the gaps where the girl used to be, studiously avoids even thinking her name. He is an occlumens. He can do that.

He’s absolutely, perfectly fine.

And if he snaps at his godson more than usual, if he grades his students’ essays more harshly than he used to, if he keeps a small, leather-bound book in the top drawer of his desk, well, nobody dares comment on it.

* * *

Winter bleeds into spring. March drifts in, unnoted, completely unspectacular until— 

Until Severus is awoken by an incoming floo call at the ungodly hour of three in the morning. 

If it is a Hogwarts emergency, a ghost or a portrait or a student would have come running to notify him. If it is a political or international emergency, Albus would be standing over him, giving him a heart attack.

Since it’s a floo call, Severus throws his robes haphazardly over his pyjamas and feels perfectly justified answering it with a grumpy “What.”

Lily’s head pops out, her hair a bright shock of red in the green flames. His heart skips a beat at the sight of her.

“Update,” she blurts out.

“What?” Incredulous, this time.

“We said we’d give you updates. Come over.” It takes a moment to realize she’s talking about _Rigel,_ and suddenly he’s wide awake.

“Now?”

“Yeah,” she pauses. “Or we can call you back—”

“No,” he cuts her off. Rigel— Harry— _Rigel._ “Give me a second.” 

Lily’s head disappears. Severus grabs his wand and a pinch of floo powder, throwing the latter into the fireplace. “Potter Place!” he cries, without hesitation, and steps into the fire in a single practiced motion. The thought that it could be a trap doesn't even occur to him.

He’s barely a step out when Lily thrusts a handful of parchment into his hands. “James found this attached to a present—” she gestures at a wrapped-up box on the dining table, “— when he came back from his late shift. Read it.”

He obeys without a second thought, his heart thrumming in his throat.

 _Dear Addy,_ it begins.

_Happy 3rd birthday! We’re sorry we can’t be there, since we’re sort of wanted criminals right now, but we hope your parents and your Uncles Remus and Sirius have planned something fantastic for you!_

_From your big sister and your favourite cousin,_

_Harry and Archie_

The next scroll, significantly longer:

 _Dear Mum and Dad (and Sirius, and Remus),_

_I’d say it took a while to find the opportunity to write this, being on the run and all, but I admit that is mostly an excuse._

_The real reason we haven’t written in so long is because, honestly, I still don’t quite know what to say._

_Archie says to start from the beginning, so I guess that’s what I’ll do._

_It was my idea, the ruse. You might recall that, before everything, I wanted more than anything to study potions under Professor Snape, and Archie wanted to learn healing at AIM. Being a halfblood, I couldn’t attend Hogwarts. And Sirius insisted on sending Archie there._

_If we could just switch places, it would be perfect._

_And then, I had thought, why not?_

Below that is a detailed description of Rigel’s first four years at Hogwarts, and Severus reads it with a sense of what is almost awe, though he would never admit it. He knows most of it already, but to see it laid out in sequence, the missing pieces— Flint’s homework, the Dominion Jewel, a _freedueling tournament_ — in place— 

It’s more impressive than he imagined. More dangerous, reckless, and downright stupid than he imagined, but so very impressive. 

And then, fourth year, where the ruse held despite the spotlight and her precarious position, until those last few fateful minutes.

_You saw what happened in the last task, no doubt multiple times. I won the tournament, everything fell apart, and I flew away._

_As soon as I cleared Hogwarts, I apparated straight to my apartment on Dogwood Lane, called Archie— thankfully, I had my mirror in my potions bag— activated the wards, and promptly passed out._

_Archie arrived in London the next day via muggle transportation. I’d hardwired him into the wards, so after he entered and ascertained I was “in possession of all four limbs,” he took care of packing and escape arrangements. We fled to France by train that evening, in our animagus forms, under the invisibility cloak._

_I think Archie’s going to tell you about our adventures this past year, so I won’t use up any more parchment. In short, we’ve been on the run, but now we’re safe. We’ve settled. I won’t tell you where, in case this falls into the wrong hands (Archie says it’s paranoia, but I say it’s prudence) but I just want you to know that we’re safe._

_I’m sorry. I’m sorry for the lies, and the secrecy, and the hurt I’ve caused, to you and all of my friends at Hogwarts. I’m sorry for sealing myself off, for taking your eldest daughter from you. I'm sorry for the trouble the reveal has caused, and all the questioning and publicity. But I’ve given this a lot of thought, and I’m not sorry for the ruse. I was just trying to follow my dreams, after all, and I did._

_I think that if I’d known everything that would happen, when we were planning this, I’d have done it anyways._

_I hope Addy never finds herself in the same situation I was in. I’m sorry I can’t be there for her, but I’ll try to be the best sister I can from abroad. Tell her that, will you? I hope she enjoys her birthday present. Archie and I picked it up from a lovely muggle town in Egypt._

_I miss all of you. Tell her that too._

_Leo knows how to contact me for the next week or so, if you want to reply._

_Love,_

_Harry_

_P.S. I know I shouldn’t ask this of you, given whatever mysterious history you have going on with him, but could you pass on some notes to Professor Snape? I think he’ll find them rather interesting. Explain everything as well, if he wants to know— I owe him that much._

The handwriting changes.

_Dear Dad (and everyone else),_

Severus lowers the letter. He blinks once, twice, scrubs a hand over his sleep-worn face.

No, it’s not a dream. 

He looks up and finds Lily and three Marauders watching him, and, for once, doesn’t feel the instant need to defend himself.

_They’re safe. They won’t be coming back but they’re safe. She’s safe._

He takes a moment to let himself revel in that thought, in the soldiness of parchment in his fingers. The sheer relief, like a gust of cool air in a stale room. The sudden lightness in his limbs.

He closes his eyes briefly. _Thank Merlin._

Then snaps them open. “Where are the notes she left me?”

There’s a flurry of movement, and Lily replaces the letters in his hands with a thick stack of parchment. Attached on top is a note, short, economical.

_Master Snape,_

_Thank you for everything you taught me. I’m sorry for the lies._

_Here are the notes for a completed healing kit._

_\- H_

He wants to weep. He wants to laugh. He stumbles to the nearest chair and sits down, clutching the notes with both hands. It doesn’t even occur to him to be offended at how short her message to him is, only that she is safe and she is well. As safe as the girl could be, at any rate, given the grudge Fate holds against her.

He never truly let it go, did he?

Fool were they and more fool was he.

“Severus?” a Marauder asks, tentatively.

“The idiots. The absolute, blithering idiots,” he says, with no real bite to his words, "How'd they survive this long?"

“Watch it, Sev,” Lily warns, and he can hear the faint pride in her words, too.

* * *

A note is placed within a warded envelope; it reads:

_H -_

_Apology accepted. Stay out of trouble. Don’t get caught._

_Check the next edition of Potions Quarterly._

_I wish you luck._

_\- S_

An owl makes its way to the King of Thieves. 

A potions master exhales, finally, and places a leather-bound notebook neatly on a shelf.

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a short thing cycling through a couple perspectives and then it went _nope_ and maybe sorta kinda just spiralled out of control. So, uh, sorry if the ending is a little abrupt.


End file.
